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.It was so far away, how could he do anything to save this woman’s sister?A thundering crack rolled across the night swells.The Ylladon ship rocked, and its stern shifted suddenly toward the open sea.“No.,” Sgäile moaned.Another thundering impact filled the night.The marauder ship’s prow dipped sharply into the sea and did not come up again.It was sinking.The hkœda had released his shävâlean—the “swimmers.” They would not stop pounding and ramming at the Ylladon vessel until either it sank beyond reach in the depths or they became too damaged or worn themselves.Sgäile looked away as the woman tried to lift her head to see.“Do not,” he said.He pulled a stiletto to sever the rope, then grasped the back of her tunic and towed her as he swam.Another crack sounded in the distance from the hull of the Ylladon ship.All Sgäile could do now was try to reach the shore.Chane watched helplessly as oil globes struck the elven ship and flames erupted across its deck.“Wynn,” he whispered.He lunged across the ship, searching to slaughter whoever had flung those globes.“Stop!” Welstiel shouted.Chane turned, sword in hand.Sabel came behind Welstiel, along with the other ferals, all laden with canvas and ropes and packs.“You said they would have time to escape!” Chane rasped, and his throat turned raw.Welstiel’s lips curled angrily.He opened his mouth to spit a response, but Chane never heard it.The sound of wood smashing filled his ears.The Ylladon ship lurched sharply, and seawater sprayed over the rail, driving debris across the deck.Welstiel clutched the mast, glancing about as half the ferals were thrown from their feet.“Take the packs and gear from her,” Welstiel said, pointing to Sabel.“Tie the canvas to your back.”Chane glared at him and did not move.“We have to swim,” Welstiel snapped, “as far north as possible before going ashore.We cannot risk Magiere or the dog sensing us.”“Swim?”“We will be too visible if we take a skiff,” Welstiel answered.He turned to Sabel and the others.“Leave no one here alive, and then follow us.”Another thundering crack sent the ship spinning sideways, and the bow dipped sharply.Chane grabbed the rail to keep from sliding.The ferals snatched at anything they could hold on to.For once they showed little eagerness for feast or slaughter.And Chane’s own hate faltered under his instinct to survive.“We all go now!” he hissed.“Any crew left would never let themselves be caught by the elves.We are hardly in danger of them revealing you!”He pulled himself up the slanting deck and took Sabel’s bundled canvas.He tried to wrap it tightly about his own pack, to protect the precious texts from the monastery, before tying the bulk across his shoulders.Welstiel never answered him, just threw his own pack full of arcane objects over his shoulder.Without hesitation, he shouted, “Come!” to his monks and vaulted the ship’s rail.Another loud crack exploded into the hull.Chane clutched the rail, waiting for the ship to settle, and then jumped overboard.In a brief glimpse of the burning elven ship, his thoughts filled with the image of Wynn’s oval, olive-toned face.Then he sank beneath the cold, dark water.“Sgäile!” Leesil shouted from the skiff’s front, one hand gripping its upturned prow.He searched the ocean swells with Osha crouched beside him.Magiere and Chap sat in the back with Wynn, now wrapped in her coat, as two elven sailors pulled on the oars.At least two other skiffs headed for shore, but not this one.Leesil had turned their small vessel southward, parallel to the coast and back along the marauder vessel’s course.“He’s got to be out here,” Leesil said tightly.“He’s too much of a pain in the ass to end up dead.”“Yes,” Osha answered.“We find him.”But the young elf looked no more certain of his claim than Leesil.And Sgäile was indeed a pain in the ass.Leesil was sick of the way the man looked at him, as if he was supposed to do something that Sgäile wouldn’t actually say.All the man’s superstitious nonsense about ancestors and his people’s old ways did little more than complicate Leesil’s life—or hint at a life he wanted no part of.Now that self-righteous, long-boned, sour-faced throat-cutter—that idiot—had thrown himself overboard to save someone he didn’t even know.But.Leesil couldn’t let him die out here.Chap barked, and Leesil’s grip tightened on the prow as the skiff crested another swell.“There!” Wynn cried.She pointed beyond where Chap clung to the skiff’s edge with one fore-paw.Out in the water, Leesil caught a flash of white.“Sgäile!” he shouted again, and looked down to Osha [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]